


The Secret Language of Cats

by Thistlerose



Series: Midnight Conversations [2]
Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Backstory, Character Study, Family, Gen, Marauders' Era, Romani Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-11
Updated: 2010-09-11
Packaged: 2017-10-11 16:25:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/114341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thistlerose/pseuds/Thistlerose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Remus Lupin was six years old, he met his great-grandmother, and learned that wandering was part of his heritage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Secret Language of Cats

Remus met his great-grandmother Sofia only once. The summer before his seventh birthday, his parents took him to St. Rémy, in Provence. It was his first holiday outside Britain. He remembers it well, though it was many years ago.

He had always wanted to see St. Rémy because he was named for it, as well as for a Roman ancestor who made maps of Scotland and eventually settled there. He remembers the narrow, winding streets, the rose-colored shops and houses, and the hazy, sun-splashed plazas. He remembers the smells of the markets, the fresh baguettes, cheeses, and smoked meats. He remembers the lavender fields that slipped by as he and his mama and papa rode down to the sea on their bicycles. Remus remembers the coolness of the metal handlebars in his small fists, his dad's arm tight around his waist, and his mum laughing that she has become so accustomed to broomsticks that the bicycle felt strange and clumsy.

Remus remembers his first glimpse of the Mediterranean. It was bluer than the North Sea and the Atlantic. It was almost turquoise. Remus thought that because it looked different, it ought to feel different and taste different. He was mildly disappointed when it did not. Remus' father took a picture of him putting his feet in the Mediterranean for the first time.

Remus still has the picture. It rests on the mantel over the fireplace in his quarters at Hogwarts, where he is about to begin teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts. Beside it is the only picture he has of his great-grandmother Sofia. The picture of six-year-old Remus is magical; the picture of his great-grandmother is not. The turquoise waves roll up onto the sand and six-year-old Remus shrieks with silent delight as they splash him. Sometimes his mum runs into the picture, her hair wild and windblown, her bellbottoms rolled up to her knees. She grabs Remus around the waist, lifts him into the air and swings him in a wide circle. Remus kicks the air with his small feet. This unbalances his mum, and they both fall into the sea.

Remus' great-grandmother Sofia seems serenely oblivious to the tumult going on in the frame beside hers. This picture was taken with black-and-white Muggle film. Remus cast a Preservation Charm on the picture when he found it, but by then it was already nearly eighty years old, and had faded a great deal. The woman in the picture looks no older than eighteen. She is delicate and dark-haired, like Remus' mum and his Aunt Odette. She may be beautiful, but it's hard to tell because of the condition of the picture. Remus likes to think she is. The only features he can see clearly are her eyes, which are large and probably the same dark brown as his own, and her smile, which is lopsided and a little sad. She is standing in a flower garden, outside a small house that Remus knows was destroyed many years ago. This picture was not taken in France.

Remus remembers the first time he saw his great-grandmother. He had arrived at her house in a sullen mood. The moon had been full only three nights earlier, and he had not enjoyed the Portkey trip from Scotland to St. Rémy. He had been worried about Pippin the cat, whom he'd had to leave behind. What if the charm didn't work and his food bowl didn't refill itself every morning? What if he got his claws stuck in a screen and couldn't get them out? What if he got lonely? To make matters worse it had been a hot day, and the little white-haired woman who greeted his parents had turned to him and mussed his hair as though she had known him all his life. Remus did not like being touched.

He remembers shrinking behind his dad, and clinging tightly to his hand. "That's funny," he remembers his great-grandmother saying with an accent that was somewhat different from his mum's. "I thought you had a little son, Sylvie. I thought I saw a small boy, but he has disappeared. Maybe I imagined him."

Remus remembers looking in bewilderment from the old woman's face to his parents'. He remembers thinking, _But I'm right here. Is she mad?_ The possibility of insanity made his great-grandmother slightly more interesting.

"Just as well," she went on, with a shrug. "Since I only have two bicycles. And this means I don't have to make nearly as much food as I was going to."

Remus tugged on his dad's hand. "Real bicycles?" he inquired. "Like on the telly?" He'd seen them in town, too, and on the road that ran past his house, but never up close, and he'd never ridden one.

"And I was going to bake madeleines this afternoon," his great-grandmother continued, still talking to his parents as though he were not there. "Now I don't have to, because I know you don't like cookies, Nicholas."

"I hate sweets," his dad declared.

Remus was indignant. _This_ was a blatant lie. According to his mum, his dad was entirely _too_ fond of sweets. Remus was aware – or so he now prefers to think – that his parents and his great-grandmother were playing a game with him. He was not sure what sort of response they wanted from him, though, so he remained where he was.

"Maybe we'll just go shopping," said Remus' mum. "It's such a nice day, the beach will be very crowded. We can come back for dinner – maybe a nice, light salad – and then maybe we can see a movie. I want to see _Le Samouraï_. It's been so long since I saw a French film without subtitles. I think Nick's French is good enough that he would understand it."

Game or not, this had gone too far. "I don't _want_ to see a French movie," Remus insisted, pulling hard on his dad's hand. "I don't want a salad. I want to go to the beach. I want to ride a bicycle. I want—" He'd forgotten the word his great-grandmother had used. "—Sweets. Can we not go to the beach, Daddy?"

His dad looked down at him. "Oh, there you are, Remus," he said as though he were surprised. "I _knew_ I had a son. Didn't I tell you I had a son, Sofia?"

Remus looked again at his great-grandmother. She was pretty, he thought, for an old woman. Her eyes were very dark, but her hair was white as snow, and her skin seemed as delicate as the Spanish lace his mum kept neatly folded in her jewelry box at home. He wondered if her skin smelled like lavender and spices, the way the lace did. She smiled at him. It was a shy smile, not a warm one, but he found himself smiling back. He liked that she was short, he decided. It meant he did not have to tilt his head so far back to see her face, and she did not have to kneel in front of him, like some grownups did, which he hated.

"I have cats," she announced, unexpectedly.

"So have I," Remus said, taken aback.

"I have fifteen cats," said his great-grandmother. "More or less."

"You do _not_," Remus retorted. His parents wouldn't let him have more than one cat; how could anyone have fifteen? "You're not even a witch!"

His dad squeezed his hand and said warningly, "Remus…"

"No, I am not a witch," his great-grandmother agreed. "But I have all those cats. Or they have me. They come and go. But the last time I counted, there were fifteen. You can try to find all of them. Some are in the house, some are in the garden."

"What're their names?"

"I don't know," said his great-grandmother. "They haven't told me. Maybe they'll tell you?"

"I don't know that spell," said Remus. When his great-grandmother looked puzzled, he explained. "There're spells so you can talk to animals. Different ones for different animals. Some of them are really hard. Some of them are—" He struggled with the word.

"_Forbidden_," whispered his dad.

"Fro-bidden," Remus went on. "Like Parseltongue is how snakes talk. Only Dark wizards know Parseltongue, though, so it's fro-bidden. And it's really hard. Cats' language is really hard, too. Cats all have their own names, too. We just call them things. Pippin's real name isn't Pippin. We just call him that so we know who we're talking to." He wondered if he ought to tell her he was trying to learn the cats' language. Sometimes, when he was lying abed after the full moon and Pippin came to visit him, Remus tried to mimic the cat's chirrups and meows. Sometimes Pippin answered him back, but for all Remus knew the cat could have been informing him he was talking gibberish.

"That's interesting," his great-grandmother said. "I didn't know cats had their own language. I only know French, English, and German. Maybe you will tell me more about wizards while we make madeleines later? After you and your parents come back from the beach?"

She smiled at him again. Still somewhat uncertain, but reassured by the prospect of baking and bicycles, Remus let go of his dad's hand and took a step forward.

***

Remus enjoyed the beach. If he ever needs proof of that, all he need do is glance at the picture of his six-year-old self shrieking and splashing through the waves. It was crowded, as his mum had predicted, but for once he did not mind being among so many strangers. As a foreigner, he was not expected to mingle. When two boys who looked about his age tried to engage him in a game of catch, all he had to do was stammer, "_Je ne comprends pas_," and they, not realizing he was lying, left him alone.

He collected sea glass, using his dad's floppy hat as a basket. He used some of his allotted francs to buy postcards and Coke. When he finished his drink, he rinsed the bottle in the Mediterranean Sea and filled it with sand, thinking it would be a nice thing to keep. His mum warned him that if he broke it and got sand everywhere, he would be in trouble. Even today Remus wonders if his Muggleborn mum sometimes forgot she was a witch.

He and his parents must have had lunch on the beach, since they returned to St. Rémy in the early afternoon, but he does not remember. Nor does he remember the ride back to his great-grandmother's house. The next thing he remembers is sitting at the kitchen table, whisking eggs, sugar, vanilla, and lemon juice around in a large bowl while his great-grandmother prepared the oven.

He had been rather fascinated by the oven, he remembers. It had so many knobs and dials, so different from what his mum and dad had in Scotland. His interest evaporated once he realized that preheating was actually a slow process; he had been expecting flames to leap off the burners with one spin of a dial.

Remus remembers a few other things about the scene. He remembers liking the way the lemon juice and vanilla smelled as he mixed them. He remembers the warm afternoon breeze blowing through the open window, causing the glass wind chimes to tinkle and carrying the scents of lavender, roses, thyme, and basil in from the back garden. He remembers the cats rubbing against his dangling legs and purring thunderously. (He had not yet counted them, or tried talking to them, but there seemed to be quite a lot.) He remembers calling his great-grandmother – at her insistence - _Mémère_ for the first time.

Now he understands what went wrong, but at the time he did not. Perhaps, he remembers thinking, he should simply have borne it when his great-grandmother put one slim hand on his shoulder and asked how the mixing was going. It was such a light touch - But he had only known her a few hours. He jerked away roughly, froze once he realized he'd upset her, and immediately began to mumble apologies – another mistake.

"There now, _mon petit_," he great-grandmother murmured, stroking his hair. "Did I startle you? I'm sorry." Then suddenly she drew back and it sounded to Remus as though something had got itself stuck in her throat. He turned around quickly, and was utterly shattered by the sight of his great-grandmother crying. She did not make another sound, but sobs shook her body, and she had her face hidden in her hand. Her frail, bent shoulders hurt him almost as much as the wolf did when it ripped itself from his bones each month.

"_Mémère!_" he cried in dismay. He ought to go to her, he knew. He ought to put his arms around her and tell her she hadn't done anything wrong, but he seemed frozen to his chair. "_Mémère_, I'm sorry!" He thought it might help if he said it in French, but the words eluded him.

His parents must have run into the kitchen, and his dad must have picked him up and carried him out because he remembers burying his face against a broad shoulder. He does not remember being yelled at, or trying to describe what happened. All he remembers is clinging, and then bursting into tears the moment he was set down on the cot that had been set up for him in the spare bedroom.

Remus was inconsolable. It was obvious to him suddenly, why his great-grandmother had backed away in horror and started to cry. She had been mussing his hair. She must have seen his tattoo, the one he got when he registered as a werewolf. She wasn't a witch, but somehow she'd recognized the numbers and symbols for what they were. He disgusted her. He frightened her. She hated him.

He had been indifferent toward her just a few hours ago. Now that he knew she could never love him, it was the only thing he wanted.

His dad sat with him until he had cried his throat raw and he was too weak to do more than sniffle and hiccup. Then his dad tucked him in, and summoned a glass of water from the kitchen. Remus took a tentative sip, then pushed the glass away. He didn't want to be comforted. He wanted to disappear.

His dad took the glass, set it on the floor, and kissed his forehead. "I'm going to talk to your mummy and your great-grandma. It'll be all right, lad. You're not in any trouble. Try to sleep. I'll be back soon. I'll be just outside if you need me sooner."

He didn't understand. Remus was relieved when he left. He didn't want to explain things just yet.

Alone, Remus turned his head on the pillow and looked at the window. It was late afternoon, and the corners of the glass gleamed amber. He could see a patch of sky, and the corner of a building across the street.

They should never have left Scotland. Remus should never have left the _house._ They would probably go home in the morning. Remus would never meet his aunt and uncle, or his cousins. His mum would be so upset.

Remus closed his eyes. Instead of his great-grandma's face, he saw the woman who had registered him a year ago. She had been squat and ugly, with a mouth like a toad's. She had looked at him as though he were an insect, and poked at him with her thick, stumpy fingers while his dad watched helplessly. _She_ had hated him. She hadn't even known him, but she had hated him. He had never known what hate looked like, until she looked at him. Remus' great-grandma had hidden her face in her hand, but he was certain that had she looked at him, he would have seen that same chilling hatred.

Something thumped onto the cot, causing it to bounce. Remus opened his eyes and saw a black and white cat with round gold eyes. "Go away," said Remus. The cat sank onto the bed and began to licks its paws. "Go away," Remus said again, and shook the blanket. The cat would not be dislodged. "Me-_ow_," he tried irritably. "I don't speak your language. I don't even know your stupid name. Go away. You shouldn't like me anyway. I'm a wolf. I'm a monster." It was the first time he had said the words. His eyes, already sore from crying, stung with fresh tears.

Remus does not know how long he lay there. It seemed like hours, but now he thinks it may only have been a short while. The sun had not yet set when the bedroom door opened again. Remus, his head still turned toward the window, did not know who had entered until his mum said softly, "Love, are you awake?"

Remus sniffed, but did not turn.

Another voice said, "_Mon petit_, I am so sorry…"

Remus' heart contracted painfully. The breath he drew in caught on something in his throat, and he coughed trying to expel it.

"Maybe I should talk to him, _grand-maman_," his mum began.

"I will talk to him," his great-grandmother said. "You can leave us alone. We will be all right, I think."

Remus felt the cot dip as she sat down beside him, but she did not speak again until the door had closed behind his mum. Then she said gently, "_Mon petit_, I am so sorry that I frightened you. It is not your fault. You did not do anything wrong." He felt her fingers near his cheek, but he shrank against the pillows, and he knew when she drew back. "Please look at me, Remus. There is something I want to show you."

Her voice trembled, but she did not sound angry. Curiosity getting the better of him, Remus turned his head and looked at her. Her smile was lopsided, almost sad. Her fingers shook as she rolled back the sleeve of her blouse and showed him the underside of her forearm.

Remus' breath snagged in his throat again. It took several tries to get the words out. When he did they were barely audible, so wild was his astonishment. "_Mémère_, you're a werewolf, too!"

"No, _mon petit_, not a werewolf," his great-grandmother said. She touched the number tattooed on her arm. "Something just as bad, though, in the minds of some people. Worse, perhaps, because werewolves are only dangerous for one night each month. Yes," she said, answering his unspoken question, "I know. Your _maman_ and papa told me before they came here. I was startled. I was…very sad. But your parents told me all about you. They have been sending me pictures of you since you were born. My youngest great-grandchild. Living so far away, in a cold country I've never seen. Where men wear funny skirts." Her smile brightened slightly. She lifted a hand again, as though to touch him, but drew it back again after a moment. "Magic, maybe, like your parents. Remus, I loved you a long time before I met you. That did not change when I found out you are a werewolf. Your _maman_ told me there is a registry for werewolves. That upset me. I did not know until today that they branded you, this registry. That is what made me cry. Not you, _mon petit trésor._ I still remember when they did this to me."

By _they_ Remus knew that she did not mean the Werewolf Registry.

"I thought you would be spared. I thought maybe that wizards are different from other people. What do you call us? Muggles. I hoped wizards were better people. That they would be kinder to my great-grandson. Can I tell you a story? It's a sad story, and it might frighten you. I asked your parents, and they said it was all right, if you will let me."

Remus nodded, even though a chill had stolen over him. He did not want to believe that anything sad or frightening had befallen his great-grandma. But she was here beside him, wasn't she? She'd stopped smiling, but at least she wasn't crying. "It's all right, _Mémère_," he said when she hesitated.

"Well." His great-grandmother glanced at the window. Her white lashes swept up the rose and gold of the setting sun, but her eyes remained very dark, and oddly distant. She said quietly, "Do you know who the Nazis were, Remus?"

"Yes," he said. "They were German Muggles. They attacked Britain. Dad remembers."

"Not only Germans," his great-grandmother said. "But yes, that is where it started. Not _all_ Germans were Nazis, Remus. That is important to remember. But still, there were many of them, and they were very powerful, and they did many, many terrible things. Do you know who the Roma are, Remus?"

"Romans?" He thought of his ancestor, whom the governor Agricola had sent to Scotland – the Romans called it Caledonia – to make maps, and who had fallen in love with a Pictish girl and stayed there for the rest of his life.

"Not the Romans," she said. "The Roma. The Romani people. Gypsies."

"Oh, gypsies." Of course he had heard of them. They were in some of his parents' books. One shopkeeper in Remus' hometown of Melrose had actually told him that he looked like a little gypsy. She hadn't said it nicely, so Remus wasn't sure she'd meant it as a compliment; he wanted to believe she had, because Remus thought gypsies were interesting.

"_Mémère_," he said, a little confused by the direction the conversation had taken, "are you a gypsy?" He couldn't imagine her as one. Not this dainty, white-haired woman with her pretty little house, her recipe books, and her herb garden.

"Now?" said his great-grandmother. "I don't know if I am now. My family was. We were Roma. I ran away when I was quite young to marry a _gadjé_ \- a non-Roma. He was a Frenchman living in Germany, named Henri Beausoleil. He was studying music. One night my friends and I snuck away from our camp and went into the city we were staying near. I looked into the window of a restaurant, and saw Henri playing the piano. He could not hear him, but he looked so passionate. I waited for an hour in the snow until the restaurant closed, just so I could meet him. My parents were not happy, but I was very much in love, and at that moment that was all that mattered."

Remus nodded. His own mum had left her home to marry his dad. She wrote to her elder sister and her parents all the time, but Remus knew it was sometimes difficult living so far away from them.

His great-grandmother leaned across him and stroked the black and white cat's fur. The cat lifted its chin and purred. "So, we got a little apartment. Henri finished his studies and got a job with an orchestra. I found a job, too. For a very long time I did know what I was. I had been Rom all my young life. Now I found myself staying in one place, which was not the Roma way. But I was not German. When my son – your grandpa – was born, I did not know what he was, either. Henri talked sometimes of returning to France, but I did not think I would ever be French.

"When the Nazis decided to kill all the Roma – and the Jews, the Communists, and the homosexuals, anyone who was different – I had been living in Germany for so many years that I thought, by that point, perhaps I was German, too. I thought I was safe, anyway, because I was married to a _gadjé_. Our son, by this time, had moved to France. He married a French girl, and they had two little daughters. Henri wanted to join him, but I refused to leave. I spent all my childhood wandering from place to place. I had lived in our apartment for twenty years, and it was my home. I did not want to leave it, or my friends. Besides, I did not know where my parents were, if they were even alive, still."

"_Mémère_?" Remus whispered, after she had been silent for a few minutes.

She sighed. Then she began to speak slowly, falteringly, of trains into which people were packed so tightly that they could not turn around. She spoke of camps where some people were killed right away, and others were forced to work until they died. She did not look at him while she said this, and Remus sensed she was not telling him everything, but he did not interrupt her.

Finally she said, "I never learned what happened to my own parents. I think they must have died in the war. My husband did – for marrying me – and so did many of my friends. Somehow, I survived. When it was over, I came here." Her dark gaze settled once more on his own, and she smiled sadly. "I have lived here for more than twenty years, but I am not French. I was never German. I am no longer Rom. I know who I am, though. I am Sofia. I am still Henri's wife, even though he is dead. I am Gabriel's mother; Odette and Sylvie's grandmother; Camille, Christian, Aimée, and Remus' great-grandmother. That is who I am, and what I am. When I think about that, I can sometimes forget that someone thought I was nothing more than this number." She turned her arm so Remus could see the tattoo again. They were only numbers, but they seemed intensely ugly to him, as though they were made from twisted black wire.

"So do you see, _mon petit_, why I was so upset? I know terrible things still happen to innocent people. But I thought…not to you. Not my Remus. But we _won't_ let such terrible things happen to you," she said fiercely. "We are a little wiser now, I think. We know to listen to warnings, anyway. And your parents have magic. Do you know, when she was just a little girl, your _maman_ protected me? It's true," she said when he goggled at her. "I was such a foreigner when I came here. I had nothing – truly nothing, except my strange accent and my strange way of doing things. Some people here were cruel to me. They said mean things and gave me mean looks. But not when my Sylvie was with me. Somehow…" She shook her head and smiled wonderingly. "Somehow, if they did not ignore me, they were nicer to me when she was there. She was a little girl then, barely five years old. But she seemed to have a power… We did not find out until later that she was a witch."

Remus had never heard this story about his mum. He said hesitantly, "I can do magic, too. Not on purpose. Once I was in bed and I couldn't reach my book. I wanted it and – it just flew to me. It scared Pippin," he added. He hoped she would talk more about his mum, or about her cats. Her story about Germany had left his body cold; he could almost feel little shards of ice floating through his veins, scraping him on the inside. He wanted to know these things, but at the same time he did not want to believe that anyone would try to kill his beloved great-grandmother.

"Tell me about Pippin," she said, as though she had sensed his thoughts. "Please. Tell me about Scotland. All I know is that it is beautiful, that it rains every day, there are lots of sheep, and men wear funny skirts."

He told her everything he knew. He told her that while it _did_ rain almost every day, it rarely rained _all_ day. He told her about climbing the Eildon Hills with his mum and dad, and counting rainbows. He told her about his parents' house outside Melrose, with its piano, its rooms full of books, and its apple tree, which he liked the climb. He told her about _kilts_, and also about bagpipes, and hills covered with purple heather, and shortbread, and Pippin. He hesitated, then told her haltingly of Wester Ross, up in the Highlands, and his parents' cabin there. He told her how he had gone out alone one night, and because it had been cloudy his parents had forgotten the full moon.

He told her this matter-of-factly. In truth, he did not remember exactly what had happened that night. He remembered desperate fear, teeth, hot stinking breath, and pain, but those were things he could not articulate.

After he had finished telling her about that, she made as though to touch his hair again, but drew her hand back. This time, without thinking, he wriggled close to her and rested his head against her leg. Hesitantly, she lifted her hand again. When Remus felt it, cool and soft on his brow, he did not flinch. She stroked his hair gently, as though she were still afraid he would bolt. But Remus closed his eyes and settled against her, and eventually he felt her expel a heavy breath.

They spent the rest of the waning afternoon together like that. Remus' mum and dad checked in on them once, but Remus was glad when his great-grandmother shooed them away. When they were alone again, she began to tell him what she remembered of her own childhood. They were fragmented memories, but they shone in the darkening room like shards of colored glass. Some were clouded by smoke. Others shimmered with sparks. Others flashed brightly, as though the sun were shining directly through them.

She told him about her favorite horse, a black mare named Saskia, whom she rode from the time she was ten until she ran away to marry Henri Beausoleil. She told him about sitting around the campfire, watching sparks leap and dance into the star-flecked sky, listening to her father play the zither while her mother cooked with cumin, paprika, and other spices. She told him about riding through the grasslands and the snow-covered mountains on Saskia, and feeling the wind burning her lungs. She told him too of the villagers who would not let them camp near their gates, who hurled insults and rocks at them as they chased them away.

She spoke to him, and stroked his hair, and when he fell asleep he dreamed of running, with sunlight hot on his shoulders, mountains all around him, and a pack of wolves at his heels. The mountains flattened and became rolling plains, which in turn became desert, then sea. The sun set and came up again, the stars wheeled overhead and dropped smoldering into the waves. He felt the heat of the wolves' breath now strong, now faint. Whether he was running toward something or merely away from something, or both, he did not know. Something more than a desire to live kept him on his feet and running, though. Something that sparkled and sang and wrapped itself around him like his great-grandmother's voice, or like the imagined notes of the zither in her story.

 

***

Remus still remembers his dream, though he had it many years ago. He understands it a little better now, though he still does not know what it is he was racing across the earth to escape or find. The wolves may be the Werewolf Registry, which protested his appointment to this position, and must hate Albus Dumbledore for defending him so staunchly. Or they may be the monster that is himself. The darkness in him manifests itself in different ways, he knows, and not all of them are wolf-shaped.

His great-grandmother Sofia died when he was ten. A Muggle car hit her as she was walking one night. Remus was devastated. She was the first person, after his parents, whom he had ever loved. It seemed so horribly unfair to him that she should have survived so much, only to die so senselessly. She would never know about his years at Hogwarts, or about the friends he made there, the ways in which he was hunted, and the times he almost knew what it was he sought in his dream. She would be proud of his appointment, he knows. She would understand his fears, too.

She will never know – unless Muggles and wizards go to the same place when they die – how he has wandered from job to job, from land to land, from life to life it sometimes seems. Sometimes he is glad she does not know. Other times, when he feels he is the only person in the world moving, while everyone else stands still, he wishes he could see her again and tell her.

He wonders how long he will be able to stay at Hogwarts.

Someday Remus will know what he seeks. Someday he may even find it. If he does, he will have the wisdom to stop running. He will draw breath, and turn around, and he will realize he was never alone.

12/06/04


End file.
